


Soul-to-Soul

by Harpalyke



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Murder, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Horcrux Hunting, Loss of Virginity, Possession, Psychological Horror, Slytherin's Locket, paranormal horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25403632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harpalyke/pseuds/Harpalyke
Summary: Hermione has read all the literature involving Horcruxes and knows how dangerous it is to become attached to one. She follows all the rules, so wearing the locket shouldn’t be a problem. Unfortunately for her, Tom Riddle, in any shape or form, has never followed rules.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 119
Collections: Multifandom Horror Exchange (2020)





	Soul-to-Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unseenbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unseenbox/gifts).



Another day in the forest with a stomach hollow and neck heavy with the weight of the locket. It was Hermione’s turn to find whatever food she could forage from the small village nearby. Of course, “nearby” was a good half-hour walk in the rain. But hunger was one powerful motivator. Thus, armed with her wand, Harry’s invisibility cloak, and Voldemort’s Horcrux, she began the journey. 

It seemed like many days ago when she looked up and saw green leaves against a brilliant blue sky. Today, the sky was grey and the leaves a dull brown, almost grey themselves. The ground was muddy, seeping into the holes of her shoes. She kept forgetting to mend them. She could do it now, but her empty stomach took precedence over her wet socks. 

In fact, as absurd as it might be, Hermione welcomed these forms of discomfort. They served as a distraction from her and Harry’s impending doom, from missing Hogwarts and her old life, and most of all, a distraction from _ him. _ He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. For the rest of the wizarding world, that referred to Voldemort. To Hermione, it was the youngest son of Arthur and Molly Weasley. The Traitor. 

No—easier to think of her wet toes and growling stomach than of him. But of course, Hermione’s mind was as stubborn as her will, so it insisted on thinking about that red-haired traitor.  _ Bet he’s all tucked up at the Burrow, _ she thought, digging her fingers into her elbows under the cloak.  _ Bet he’s full of Mummy’s food while Harry and I work out how to save the world. _

A world that, by the sounds of it, didn’t even want her… 

Keep moving, she told herself, no time for self-pity. Even her saliva was thin and devoid of nutrients. She pulled out her compass: This was the right direction, so the village should be visible by now...and at last, she saw the rusty tin roof of the house skirting the small muggle village. 

It wasn’t a much better sight than the forest. Despite the absence of a genocidal Dark wizard after them, the residents didn’t seem much happier than Harry and Hermione. The crops were a mucky mess, contributing to the air of defeat shrouding the neglected buildings. Hermione felt rather bad stealing from them, so she left the meager livestock alone and headed for the bakery. 

The scent of fresh bread provided a trail to the shack near an abandoned factory. She peered into the back window and her mouth immediately filled with saliva. Loaves of freshly-baked bread sat in a neat line on the flour-coated table, ready to be bagged up. A muggle lady with enormous hands was stuffing one into a paper bag. 

“Meg, watch the front for a mo,’ will you?” someone called, and the muggle woman disappeared. 

Another stab of regret seized Hermione’s chest as she raised her wand.  _ Who cares; they’re just muggles, _ said an odd, snide voice in her head. Where had  _ that _ awful thought come from? No time to dwell if she and Harry wanted to eat in the near future.  _ “Accio bread!”  _

The loaf was warm in her hands, lifting her spirits as she tucked it under the cloak and loped out of the village. It was short-lived: As soon as she was again enveloped by trees, the energy faded, leaving her weary and full of dread. 

Her feet made sopping sounds as her soggy shoes met the ground. The locket’s chain dug into her neck. Her unwashed hair hung lank over her cheeks. And her mind ruminated over what would would happen when—when, not if—Voldemort caught them. Harry, the Chosen One, would be spared, even only for a bit. But, absent in her parents’ memories, Hermione Granger would die nameless. Just another Mudblood. 

_ Well, with that attitude you surely will, _ said a voice in her head that definitely did not belong to her. It was the same one she’d heard just before taking the bread, she was sure of it. It was low, soothing, and masculine. Hermione had a good idea to whom it belonged. 

_ So you’ve been in my mind all along, _ she answered.  _ A locket equipped with Legilimency—how convenient.  _

When he—it—spoke again, the tone was of surprise.  _ You know of Legilimency. Very clever girl. But you must be, if you’ve evaded Voldemort thus far.  _

Voldemort. Hermione was conversing with bloody  _ Voldemort. _ She snatched the locket, yanked it over her head, and dropped it into her pocket. Of course brilliant and devious young Voldemort would enchant all of his Horcruxes to possess people. Hermione was not foolish.

And Ginny—was she foolish? Ginny had been eleven years old when she’d fallen victim to the diary’s possession. The diary had been Tom Riddle’s first Horcrux. This locket, Dumbledore and, by extension, Harry suspected was the third. It might try to possess Hermione, but Hermione was an adult witch armed with the knowledge of how sinister that piece of gold was. 

However, she did have to wear it again: She was approaching the campsite, and she didn’t want Harry kicking up a fuss about it. Had the locket spoken to him, too? No, he would have said something...except Harry didn’t readily give up information about his connection with Voldemort. 

_ No, I haven’t spoken to Harry, _ the locket told her once it again rested against her chest, eternally cold and unyielding.  _ His mind is not nearly as interesting as yours, my dear.  _

_ Oh, sod off, Tom Riddle, _ she shot back.  _ Your flattery won’t fool me.  _

He appeared to listen, for he kept quiet for the rest of the evening, save for the heartbeat drumming through her chest to her own heart. She cooked the salmon she’d caught a couple of days ago and placed a Freezing Charm on and served it with the bread so she and Harry could finally fill their stomachs. This helped relieve Harry of his moodiness, but he kept his distance, correctly assuming Hermione was still nursing the wound of The Traitor’s departure. 

_ He’s also a blood traitor, _ the locket supplied when she was tucked up in her bunk, listening to the rain thumping against the tent. 

_ That doesn’t matter to me, _ Hermione replied.  _ I’m a Mudblood, remember? Public Enemies, according to your kind.  _

_ Too right, _ the locket sneered. 

Hermione wasn’t exactly surprised that the young Tom Riddle was every bit as arrogant and mean-spirited as his present self, but it incensed her all the same.  _ Oh, my apologies—the kind of your followers, I should say. Not you...considering you’re a half-blood, ‘only one step above’ muggleborns, according to the rubbish you lot spew.  _

_ Shut up, _ Riddle hissed, causing her to grin despite the metal burning her skin. 

_ Touched a nerve, have I?  _ She clutched the locket in her palm, relishing the heat.  _ Still sore about your muggle father?  _

The locket switched tones, cooling off.  _ You sure know quite a bit about me that I don’t readily tell anyone else. Tell me, Hermione. From where did you gather this information?  _

_ Dumbledore, _ she answered without thinking, overcome with yearning for the wise old wizard, the only one who could’ve led them through this perilous hunt, if he wasn’t lying in a tomb on Hogwarts grounds. 

_ Ah, I see everything is going as planned, _ said the locket, sounding pleased.  _ Dumbledore is dead and Voldemort is in power. All is as it should be. _

_ Not for long, _ Hermione snapped, releasing it. Below, Harry shifted in his bunk, letting out an impatient breath; he, too, couldn’t fall asleep. As much as she hated to admit it, the Horcrux provided an adequate distraction from thinking about The Traitor. 

_ How pathetic, _ it said,  _ pining over an insignificant loser such as Ron Weasley.  _

_ Don’t call him that and don’t say his name!  _ Hermione tried to fight the crushing sadness as she pictured a mop of ginger hair, wide blue eyes, and lanky frame… 

_ Oh? You can speak the name of the greatest and most formidable sorcerer in the world but not that of some blood traitor? _

Snores filled the tent: Harry had finally fallen asleep. Hermione’s eyelids sank down, the last vestiges of energy and concern draining out of her. 

_ Yes, I can, Tom Riddle. Now kindly be quiet so I can sleep. _ She slid a hand to her chest, wondering if she should take off the locket, but then a warmth flooded through her, sinking her into the cot and allowing her to drift off. The last image she had before sleep took over was one she’d never seen before: a vaguely-familiar room with many magical artifacts in and on various display cases, a counter behind which stood a man, his dark-haired head bent, writing something on parchment in tight, neat script… 

The next day brought more rain, so Hermione and Harry stayed inside the tent. Harry mentioned Godric’s Hollow again, and Hermione knew it was only a matter of time before they’d end up there. She couldn’t say what about the idea of Godric’s Hollow she didn’t like, but every time she considered it, she felt a clenching in her stomach independent of growling hunger. Luckily, Harry didn’t press the issue. 

Hermione busied herself with deciphering  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard, _ spreading the book, parchment, and  _ Spellman’s Syllabary  _ across the small table and getting to work. The tales, though interesting, didn’t seem to give a single clue as to why Dumbledore left the book to her. She plunged onward with the translations, though with a lot of eyebrow rubbing and sighs of frustration. 

_ Your first but by far not your only mistake, _ said the locket,  _ is trying to make sense of that old fool’s behavior.  _

_ So says the one who split his soul into seven.  _

He chuckled, an oddly melodic sound.  _ Seeking immortality is not foolish, my dear. Though I expect no different opinion from a student under Dumbledore’s instruction. What insight has he given you besides his usual ‘love conquers all’ nonsense?  _

Hermione clutched her quill tighter, racking her mind for a good retort, but she came up empty. Begrudgingly, she had to admit she herself hadn’t learned much from Dumbledore except that there were all types of great and terrible magic that ordinary witches and wizards would never understand. And, no matter how much Hermione read and practiced and fought, her magical talent would always hover around ordinary. 

_ More than you can ask for, given your lineage.  _

_ Yours isn’t so pristine, either, _ she reminded him. 

_ Feel that locket around your neck, darling? That’s mine, handed down directly to me from Salazar Slytherin.  _

According to Harry, Riddle murdered an old lady to get his hands on the locket, but it had once belonged to his mother, who’d sold it to Borgin and Burke’s—

The strange image she saw last night came rushing back to her. All those artifacts—Borgin and Burke’s. Tom Riddle had worked there in his youth, leading him to the locket. He’d likely turned it into a Horcrux shortly thereafter… 

_ That same evening, _ the locket confirmed, and she could hear traces of amusement in his voice. 

Hermione swallowed hard and glanced at Harry, who was lying on his bunk, batting lazily at the golden snitch zooming in circles over him. Her hand subconsciously dropped to her pouch, where the rest of the books were stored, one of them  _ Secrets of the Darkest Art. _ Many ugly secrets it held, including how to make a Horcrux. How to rip a piece of your very essence from your body. A momentary but very violent shudder ran through her whole body. 

_ Why so many Horcruxes?  _

_ Hasn’t your precious Dumbledore answered that already? Immortality. Keep up, little girl.  _

Biting back the urge to snap at him, Hermione pressed,  _ But one alone gives you immortality.  _

_ Yes, until it is destroyed, like Harry has apparently done to my diary. I knew it would eventually occur. A downfall to being the most powerful being to ever live.  _

_ But why so much power? Why the fear—? _

_ I fear nothing, insolent brat. I don’t expect a silly little girl spawned from muggles to understand the pull of magic— _

“Hermione?” 

She started badly, knocking over her inkpot, and turned to Harry. He was seated on the edge of the bed, the snitch hovering over his shoulder. If he noticed something amiss, he didn’t let on. 

“It’s my turn with the locket,” he pointed out, extending his hand to take it. “It’s been about a day, you reckon?” 

“Oh.” Her hand closed around the metal in which she felt the tiny heart ticking. “Right.” She took it off, ready to hand it to Harry, but then pulled it back. If Riddle was speaking to her regularly, perhaps he’d let slip something about other Horcruxes he’d been planning when he made this one. Yes, that was the reason. 

“You know..I can keep it on if you’d like. It’s not bothering me at all.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows, not exactly suspicious but definitely confused. Both of them—and The Traitor—had been especially keen to pass off the locket thus far. “Are...are you sure?” 

Hermione nodded, mustering up a grin. “Be warned: I may suddenly change my mind. In the meantime, let’s eat, shall we?” 

Of course Harry agreed, and she prepared the same meal as yesterday, except today the fish tasted a bit more metallic and the bread had already gone stale. Nevertheless, they couldn’t afford to be choosy, so they ate every bite of it. 

_ Are you going to answer the question, Riddle? _ Hermione tried as they ate, but the locket didn’t answer, sitting silently against her chest. Afterward, she returned to her translations, slamming the book shut in aggravation only a few minutes into it. Just as she was about to shove it back in her bag, a symbol above the title caught her eye. She’d seen it before somewhere, but she couldn’t remember where. Likely in  _ Spellman’s Syllabary. _ Since it wasn’t a part of the title itself, she’d skipped over it in her translations. 

After an entire evening of leafing through the syllabary, searching for the symbol to no avail, Hermione dressed for bed and climbed into her bunk. Below, Harry had fallen fast asleep despite not doing anything physically or mentally rigorous for the day. Hermione was expecting to stay awake pushing away memories of The Traitor, but Riddle decided to grace her with his presence. 

_ Well, well, well. I was expecting Harry tonight as per the pattern. Decided to keep the Dark Lord for yourself, have you?  _

_ Harry sees enough of Voldemort in his own mind, _ she replied. An odd pang thrummed in her chest. Her guess would be jealousy, but that was absurd. Not like Hermione  _ wanted _ to see any more of Voldemort than she had to. 

_ Oh, no? _ A snide chuckle filled her ears.  _ Why is the locket still around your neck, then, Hermione? Has your fancy shifted from the blood traitor to someone more worthy?  _

_ Oh, please, Riddle. Your charm won’t work on me. Must be my filthy muggle lineage. _

The same warmth as the previous evening overtook her, closing her eyes. She was back in Borgin and Burke’s, facing the dark-haired wizard behind the counter. This time, he glanced up and grinned, his dark eyes meeting hers. When he spoke, she heard the words as if he was actually in front of her. 

_ Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, darling.  _

_ Rubbish. _ It  _ was _ rubbish: She’d been bathing regularly, but her hair was an unkempt mess, her face pallid with deep shadows under her own brown eyes. 

_ Not rubbish, Hermione. You’re quite pretty. I could almost overlook your unfortunate blood status.  _

Hermione’s mind jammed; all she could do was lie there with the image of that handsome young man in her head. Both Harry and Ginny had told her he was charming and attractive but both of them, likely due to their ages, had failed to mention the seductive eminence rolling off him in waves. Suddenly, her face was very hot and so was her blood, burning through her entire body. 

_ Let’s have some fun, shall we?  _

_ No, _ she answered automatically. Her hands had other plans, slipping under her nightdress and gliding over her thighs. She tried to jerk them back, but they were not complying, outside of her control. 

_ Stop this right now, Riddle. I’m serious.  _

Her thumbs hooked under the waistband of her knickers and pulled them down. All the while, Riddle’s smirking face remained in front of her eyes, intensifying the heat. Just as her fingers brushed her damp lower lips, she squeezed her eyes shut and managed to fight him off. Her hand flew up, nearly smacking her in the face, and she bolted upright. Off came the locket, landing on the cot next to her knee. 

Breathing heavily, Hermione plunged into furious debate with herself for a full minute. She didn’t  _ have _ to wear the locket; Harry wouldn’t know she’d slept without it. It was _ dangerous; _ she was not supposed to get attached to a Horcrux. I will  _ not  _ get attached, she resolved to herself as she clasped the locket and dipped her head through the chain. 

Riddle pounced before her head hit the pillow, showing his bloody annoying, handsome face, a wicked glint in his dark eyes that sent shivers down her spine. Again, her hand was between her legs. 

_ Naughty, filthy little witch, _ he taunted as she began to rub, smearing her vulva with arousal.  _ Not as innocent as you pretend to be, are you, Hermione? Look how wet and ready your cunt is under my instruction. Give in to me.  _

Hermione was too tired to think, too aroused to fight. She let him shove her fingers into her aching slit and pump back and forth. Her other hand clamped over her mouth, hoping to keep back the moans threatening to escape her lips. 

_ Look at this dirty, improper slut, touching herself to Lord Voldemort. Come, baby, fill that sweet little cunt and come for me…  _

Hermione’s back arched as her thrusts grew faster, while that wicked, seductive voice whispered such awful yet encouraging things. A leer took over his face, now so close to hers, eyes glittering with lust… His long fingers replacing hers, reaching deep inside of her… 

_ That’s it, darling…  _

Bombarded with the most powerful climax she’d ever had, Hermione writhed, biting back a cry of release so hard she tasted blood in her mouth. Fluid leaked out of her slit, forming a small, warm puddle that seeped into her nightdress. Thick, foul shame rose up as bile in her throat, bringing tears to her eyes. 

_ Good, _ said the locket.  _ You should be ashamed, slut. _ Before Hermione could even form a coherent thought, blackness took over. 

When her eyes creaked open the next morning, the events of last night came flooding back to her at once, filling her with shame and outrage.  _ How dare you, Riddle! _ She yanked the locket over her head and hurled it over the side of the bed. Fortunately, Harry wasn’t in the tent, so he didn’t hear the  _ thump _ of heavy metal against the floor. 

The plan was to simply hand the locket over to Harry and inform him that it was his turn, but no sooner than Hermione’s feet hit the floor, a terrible ache seized her chest, sending her to her knees. She cried out and clutched her heart, which felt like it was being torn apart layer by layer. Eyes watering, she gasped for breath and crawled until she opened her eyes and found herself facing the locket on the floor. She didn’t even have to think; on it went, securing its place over her heart and immediately easing the pain. 

_ Won’t try that again soon, will we? _

Hermione didn’t answer, overwhelmed with something she couldn’t decipher. Given the circumstances, it should have been horror or dread, but it was almost...almost like... _longing—_

“Oh, you’re awake,” said Harry, who had appeared out of nowhere with snowflakes peppered in his dark hair and glasses fogged up from the sudden warmth. 

Hermione nodded and gave him a weak smile. 

“I’ve been collecting firewood,” he explained. “The temperature seems to have dropped overnight, hasn’t it?” 

She hummed in agreement, heading for her bag. Focusing on translating runes seemed next to impossible, but she had to present some sort of facade of normalcy in front of Harry. Especially if she wanted to stave off the inevitable trip to Godric’s Hollow. 

_ Why are you so intent on avoiding Godric’s Hollow? Voldemort will find you both and kill you regardless of where you hide.  _

_ Shut up, Riddle, _ she replied wearily, pulling out  _ Tales of Beedle the Bard, _ setting it on the table, and opening it to the spot she’d bookmarked however long ago. Just that action seemed to zap her of energy. 

“Erm, Hermione?” Harry asked tentatively. “I don’t suppose...we’ll be wanting to eat soon?” 

Translation: Cobble together the meal we’re going to eat today or we won’t eat at all. Hermione straightened up and nodded. Perhaps getting out of this stifling tent and breathing fresh air would revive her a bit. 

However, upon stepping foot into the cool air, it became apparent that it wouldn’t help. Her legs were wobbly and aching as she stood on a ground of wet leaves the heavy rains had torn from the trees. Their bare branches were twisted against a deep grey sky, waiting to wrap around her and squeeze the last remaining life out of her. 

You’re being silly, she chided herself, clomping toward the village with her head down. Once the tent disappeared from view, she knew she wasn’t going to make it that far. Her knees creaked and her vision constantly slid out of focus, like she was 88 instead of 18. At least she was able to find a few fat mushrooms. On the way back to the tent, the locket began to needle her. 

_ Look who still has the locket under the silly guise of ‘learning more about Voldemort’s Horcruxes.’ As if I’d ever be foolish enough to tell you anything.  _

_ Tell me this, then: Did you know you could mend your soul back together by feeling remorse? _

_ Fascinating. _ His voice dripped with sarcasm.  _ And what use do I have with this information?  _

_ Well, considering Harry’s going to defeat you, it may be the only avenue you’ve got left.  _

_ Oh, Hermione. _ Riddle materialized in her mind, sharp and clear, no longer a floating head with shoulders but a whole person, dressed in plain black robes. He was quite taller than her, forcing her to look up at him.  _ How cute you are, holding such high hopes for such a pointless endeavor.  _

His hand lifted, and Hermione felt a cool, dry finger run down her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed. When she opened them, Riddle was gone, replaced by the tent only feet away. 

“I’m feeling a bit poorly,” she told Harry, cradling the mushrooms in her hand. Of course he didn’t argue. She managed to boil the mushrooms into a passable soup, enhanced by the last bits of the very stale bread soaked into the watery broth. Harry ate ravenously without complaint, while Hermione barely managed to finish her bowl. Her stomach was active, sloshing the soup around in anticipation of something. Halfway through the evening, she figured out what: She wanted Riddle to return when she went to bed and surrendered herself to his seductions. 

No, that’s gross and absurd, she scolded herself, but was there any use in denying it anymore? She yearned for that glint of lust in his eyes, his voice speaking her name and calling her other, dirtier names. 

But he did not come. Only another soft caress from her cheek to her chest, lighting up her nerves and releasing a small pool of fluid into her knickers.  _ Come back, _ she told him, but he responded by sinking her into blackness. 

The next day passed in a haze. Hermione could barely move or think. Harry bought her story about still feeling ill—it wasn’t entirely false—and let her be. Once in a while, blackness swallowed her up, but thankfully she was always on the bed when it receded. As the sun began to dip between the trees and a chill permeated the tent, Harry built a fire and presumably sat beside it. Eventually, he poked his head back in to announce he was going to the village for food. 

Hermione barely heard him. Her eyes were closing, her mind nothing but static. She knew she should take off the locket, but even if she could muster up the strength to lift her arm, she didn’t want to. 

Blackness came and went. When she opened her eyes, she was walking through the forest, her cloak thrown haphazardly over her nightdress, her bare feet jammed into her trainers. The locket’s heartbeat ticked fervently, vibrating her chest. The trees swayed and blurred around her, but one thing was in sharp focus: a tall figure standing in front of her, waiting for her to approach. 

She didn’t make it. A few steps before him, she fell to her knees, sinking into a warm, bright light instead of blackness as usual. An image flashed in her head: herself, sprawled on the ground among the muddy leaves. 

“Hermione.” 

Her eyes opened. She was still in front of Tom Riddle, standing upright again, in a long, pale blue dress that fluttered around her legs. She was somewhere—had no idea where—bright and clean, and she herself was clean. Her hair was neither bushy nor lanky but flowing over her shoulders, like she’d worn it at the Hogwarts Yule Ball. Vitality she hadn’t felt in days flowed through her limbs, helping her move toward Riddle with ease. 

“Am I dead?” she whispered. Absentmindedly, she reached for her throat, but the locket was gone. 

Riddle chuckled and shook his head. “Shall I prove it?” 

Before she could ask for elaboration, he was inches away, his cool hand on her cheek. “Now I’ve got you where I want you,” he said in a low, teasing voice, bringing a flush to her cheeks and a clenching need between her legs. 

His hand dropped to her chest and tore her dress clean down the center, and that’s when Hermione’s brain  _ finally _ woke up. “No—Riddle—this isn’t a good idea—” 

“Hush.” He touched a finger to her lips before pressing his own against them, his hands cupping her bare breasts. No, this was not good; she was kissing  _ Voldemort; _ of course she didn’t want this—did she? 

“You want this,” Riddle hissed in her ear, and could she really argue that when his mouth was so adept and his scent resembled that of her favorite place in the world, the Hogwarts library? 

She was reclining backward fast, bracing for the back of her head to hit the floor of wherever-they-were, but it sank into something soft like a pillow. Riddle was on top of her, grinding into her, while his hands snaked between her legs. 

“I see you’re wet and ready for me,” he growled into her neck, rubbing her slick lower lips. He was not gentle, but it wasn’t painful and wasn’t exactly unwanted, either. Until two of his long fingers slid into her. 

“No,” Hermione squeaked, trying to slide out from under him. 

“This cunt hasn’t ever been touched by another, has it? Saving it for the Weasley boy, were you? Not anymore, now it’s mine. You are mine. And now my virtuous little Gryffindor will give herself up to Lord Voldemort.” 

He was inside of her in a blink, stretching her, before he even finished his taunt. It was too big and invasive and _wrong_...except through the pain and horror, a tiny seed of pleasure was starting to sprout roots. The tip of his cock was rubbing against a spot deep inside of her that sent powerful shockwaves through every nerve. 

In addition, his eyes, narrowed in concentration and the tiniest bit of contempt, were boring deep into hers, and honestly, Hermione didn’t want to fight anymore. Her grip tightened around his shoulders rather than push them away. Her cries leaked pleasure rather than protest. If this meant she was a slut, letting Voldemort thrust into her like he was ready to tear her in two...well, so be it. 

The pleasure built, sending her eyes rolling back and stiffening her limbs. Her inner walls tightened around his pumping cock, attempting to keep him inside of her for good, while her nails dug through his robes into his skin. 

“That’s it, give in to me… You see, Hermione? Only I know your true desires.” 

Riddle leaned up and increased the pace, his hand releasing her hip and clasping her throat. The pleasure turned into ecstasy so pure, every second closer to climax was excruciating, but it was coming; it was so close—

Then he was shaking her, slamming her head against a hard ground. The air was suddenly freezing cold. Something hit her round the face as a chain dragged over her neck and cheek… She opened her eyes and saw not Riddle’s face inches away from her own but Harry’s, tears pooling under his glasses and dripping off his jaw. 

“Hermione, wake up!” he bawled, shaking her shoulders. 

“I’m awake,” she croaked, pushing him away and sitting up. They were in the forest, the last vestiges of light fading into dusk. Beside a gasping Harry, a loaf of bread lay abandoned on the ground, streaked with mud. 

“Where—where's the locket?” she asked. 

Harry pointed to where he’d evidently thrown it. The gold caught the dimming sunlight, winking at her. “What the  _ fuck, _ Hermione? The thing was choking you! Bloody hell, I should’ve been watching out for...you know…” 

He crawled over and reached for it, his blotchy face screwed up in distaste. “No, don’t put it on!” Hermione cried, running her hand across her swelling neck. 

Harry shook his head and slipped it into his pocket before grabbing the loaf of bread and helping Hermione to her feet. “No way. Neither of us is wearing that thing anymore. Come, let’s eat. I’ll make you some hot tea.” 

Side by side, they walked to the tent, Hermione reveling in her renewed strength and clarity. Every so often, her eyes strayed to Harry’s pocket, where the Horcrux created a slight bulge against his leg. She was supremely glad he would not be wearing the locket, either. Not only for his safety, but because that piece of Tom Riddle that they’d soon destroy, just that one fragment of his soul before he became present-day Voldemort, was  _ hers. _ And a piece of her, his, like he’d said right before he claimed it. 


End file.
